The Walkers Never Look Back
by normanreeduslut
Summary: this is where season three of Walking Dead left off; Daryl is struggling with himself in multiple ways; he doesn't know how to cope with Merle's recent death, or how to develop more serious and closer relationships with others. When the group comes across someone named Thea, Daryl finds himself forced to face not only his own inner issues, but something much more life-changing.


1

Daryl looked up at the sky distastefully as the heard the beginning sounds of thunder reached me.

"Damn weather," he mumbled, trudging on, boots crumpling all the leaves he stepped on.

_There!_

He raised my crossbow and shot an arrow, slicing perfectly into the body of the squirrel just as it scurried up the tree. The arrow entered through the animal's back, wedged into the trunk of the tree. Daryl nonchalantly sauntered over to yank the arrow out, when he heard a sudden crunch of dry leaves and twigs.

It wasn't from him.

Daryl spun around, his eyes darting to the right, left, and back again.

"Merle?" he called out on instinct, before experiencing a piercing sorrow as the memory developed in his mind. Those damn jokes he used to play…

There it was. Again. Behind him.

This time, he pretended not to hear, instead purposefully dropping the squirrel. Daryl grasped his used arrow tightly, leaving the dead animal on the ground, ready to defend himself. He didn't hear any heavy breathing, or inhuman noises that walkers usually produced, but people could be just as dangerous.

Suddenly, he swung around so he wouldn't face the tree, so fast he almost fell over.

Almost.

Daryl had sensed something behind him, and now he was certain it wasn't a walker. It would have made itself visible by now.

Suddenly, there was a gun held to his left temple, just brushing his hair.

Daryl's eyes strained to his left as he tried to get a good look at his attacker, but all he saw was what seemed to be a .87 Glock. He dropped the crossbow and raised both hands in surrender, abruptly realizing how Hershel was somewhat right when he mentioned Daryl should tell the group where he's leaving to.

"Who are _you_?" He said, twisting his head towards the offender. His eyes were squinted as he tried to see through the glaring sun.

It was a _she. _

"Let's not-"

"You got a damn mouse in your pocket? There is no 'we'," she snapped, fingers tightening dangerously close to the trigger.

"Behind you," Daryl said matter-of-factly, gesturing with his head to the area behind her.

It worked. She spun in a panic at the thought of another walker, and he seized the opportunity.

Daryl jumped on her while her back faced him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she crumpled to the ground, knees buckling first.

"Thinkin' some skank like you could take me on?" Daryl grumbled angrily, his breath labored as he struggled to hold her down.

She was young, younger than him, and strong.

"Get the…fuck…off…_me_," she attempted to talk as Daryl tried to stop her pointless struggle.

"You pointed the gun _first_," he angrily retorted, jumping off as soon as he had the gun out of her grasp and securely in his. Daryl grabbed his crossbow in a millisecond with one hand, the other shoving the gun into his pocket, and aimed it directly at her forehead.

"Get up."

She did, slowly, both palms up and facing him.

"Faster," he snapped; she still wasn't fully standing.

She did as he said.

"Now on your knees."

"You're kidding, right?"

But she did it anyway, arms still raised.

Daryl thought for a moment, observing.

She had clear, pale skin, which was uncommonly pale, especially with all the sun and heat. Brown hair just past the shoulders, and startling green eyes. A good figure, but who didn't today, with all the constant running and fighting.

What to do with her. He _could_ shoot her on the spot-

"So?" she was impatient, and Daryl quickly and forcefully took three large steps toward her, dropped the crossbow, and took her gun out of his pocket in less than 2 seconds. He raised it and swung it at her head, stopping an inch before contact.

He would never hit a woman because he was… _annoyed_. That was Merle's call.

_Merle_. The name once again triggered a dull yet deep sense of grief and loneliness, but he shoved it away. Like always.

What was this? Making him feel this…this…this _sadness_. Making him _weak._

Merle was _gone._ For _forever._

He needed to "kick off his high heels and quit being such a pussy." Just like the old Merle would say.


End file.
